Lyra’s POV
For two long years, I’d worn the Luna title like a cloak that never quite fit—too heavy, too tight, never really mine. Even after all that time, Thorne and I didn’t share a bed.
He once told me, “I just sleep better alone.” But it wasn’t his words that stung—it was the way he said them, eyes avoiding mine, tone clipped and distant. He didn’t mean he preferred solitude. He meant he couldn’t stand lying beside me.
That afternoon, as the sun dipped low and spilled orange light across the polished floors of the pack house, Thorne stood before everyone and announced that Lilith would be staying indefinitely. Not only that—she would be moving into the Luna quarters.
My quarters.
I didn’t react. Didn’t protest. I simply gave a small nod and murmured, “Alright.” I could feel his gaze on me, searching for a flicker of outrage or heartbreak—something to prove I still cared. But I was too exhausted for either. There was no point clinging to something that had already been taken from me piece by piece.
When I turned away to pack my things, his footsteps echoed down the hall. And just like that, he was gone again—with her.
In my old room, sunlight streamed through the windows, painting everything gold. I stood in the middle of the space I’d once tried so hard to make feel like home. Now, it just felt foreign.
On the shelf sat our wedding photo—cracked from the fall it took earlier that morning when Lilith “accidentally” knocked it down. I hadn’t been able to throw it away. Carefully, I lifted it down, ready to pack it. But as I slid it into the box, I didn’t notice the jagged edge of glass sticking out.
My hand slipped.
“Damn it—” I gasped, stumbling back. My knee hit the broken shards, and a sharp pain tore through my leg. Blood welled up instantly, seeping through the fabric of my dress. The gash was deep, throbbing in rhythm with my pulse.
I glanced toward the door. Empty. No footsteps. No scent of the man who was supposed to be my mate.
He didn’t come. He hadn’t even noticed.
I pressed the hem of my shirt against the wound, gritting my teeth as the pain burned. But even that physical sting couldn’t compare to the ache hollowing my chest.
Not once in our marriage had Thorne ever comforted me—not when nightmares kept me awake, not when I was sick, not even when I’d been captured by rogues and nearly killed. But Lilith arrived, and suddenly he could offer everything—my bed, my quarters, even my title.
By sunset, I had finished moving my things. I limped slightly as I carried the last box into one of the guest rooms. The scent of antiseptic clung to my hands from treating my wound alone. I hadn’t called a healer. I refused to give anyone another reason to whisper that I was “too fragile to be Luna.”
When Thorne finally returned, the faint aroma of Lilith’s jasmine perfume still clinging to him, he looked at the boxes lined up neatly in the hallway.
“Why are you packing?” he asked casually, as though nothing had changed.
I gave a small, practiced smile. “Just clearing out things I don’t need anymore.”
His brow furrowed briefly, but he didn’t press. “Lilith’s only staying temporarily.”
“Of course,” I said softly.
He nodded once, then walked away.
Later that evening, he appeared again, tone clipped and formal. “We’re attending the Alpha Gathering tomorrow.”
“You want me to come?” I asked, surprised.
“You’re still Luna, aren’t you?” he replied flatly. “You’re expected.”
Of course. Duty over dignity—that was the story of my life.
But I wasn’t the only woman on his arm that night.
Lilith came too, wearing an emerald silk gown that shimmered under the chandeliers. Her hair, braided with moonflowers, glowed under the light. She looked ethereal. And Thorne didn’t hide the way his gaze followed her, full of admiration he’d never once shown me.
The venue was grand—a towering hall filled with Alphas and Lunas from every corner of the region. The air smelled of dominance, perfume, and expensive wine.
When we entered, the host—a large Alpha from Granite Ridge—approached us with a polite smile. “Alpha Thorne, Luna Lyra—it’s an honor to see you again.”
Before I could reply, Thorne cut in.
“She’s not my Luna,” he said quickly, his voice sharp, dismissive. “This is Lilith, daughter of the Ravencourt Pack.”
The host blinked in surprise but quickly recovered, nodding stiffly. “Ah. My apologies.”
I said nothing. My expression didn’t falter. But inside, something deep and fragile inside me cracked. He didn’t even look at me when he said it. Didn’t use my title. Just my name—like I was some stranger who had once meant something.
We sat at our assigned table. The noise around us faded into a low hum as I focused on the golden-rimmed plates before me. My wolf stirred uneasily, restless and humiliated.
And then, out of nowhere, a scent drifted through the air. Subtle at first—woodsy, warm, electric. My wolf snapped her head up inside me, ears perked, tail flicking.
My pulse quickened. My palms grew damp.
That scent… it pulled at me—gentle but irresistible, like gravity itself had shifted. My wolf began to pace, confused, intrigued, yearning.
I inhaled again. The feeling grew stronger. My lungs couldn’t seem to draw in enough air.
“I need some air,” I murmured, pushing back my chair.
Thorne barely noticed.
I slipped out through a side door, my heart hammering wildly. The cool night air hit my skin, but the scent only grew stronger, wrapping around me like a whisper.
Because it wasn’t Thorne’s scent.
And deep down, my wolf already knew whose it was.
That terrified me.
